


Open Wounds

by SeeEmRunning



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bullies, Gen, High School, Teenagers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-22
Updated: 2014-03-22
Packaged: 2018-01-16 14:04:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1350088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SeeEmRunning/pseuds/SeeEmRunning
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The day they're supposed to move, Sam doesn't come home from school.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

_Sam was cold._

_He was freezing, in fact; was it snowing or was he just sweating?_

"He's seizing again!"

_Who's seizing? Are those snowflakes? I love snow! Maybe Dean will make a snowman with me later. It's been a while since we've done that._

"I'm going to kill the bastards."

_Why is Dean angry?_

"Dean, calm down -"

_Why is Dad here? Isn't he supposed to be in some other town? Wasn't he hunting a shifter in Michigan? Guess he's back and trying to calm Dean down._

_Sam tried to open his eyes and felt fear spike through him when he couldn't._

"BP and heart rate elevated -"

"It's within normal range -"

"...shouldn't have yelled...always upsets him…."

_Who was yelling? Where was Dean? Who was upset by yelling?_

_What was going on?_

With a monumental effort, Sam opened his eyes.


	2. Dean

Dean checked his watch again. It was nearing four; Sam should have been back by now. He wasn't worried, per se. He knew Sam could take care of himself. He was just nervous about their father's reaction.

Sam hadn't known they were moving again until he'd come in the day before. Their father was in one of his rare good moods, and when Sam had asked to be allowed to go to school for one more day to say goodbye to the few friends he'd made during their month-long stay, his father had agreed on the condition that the boys leave right after school to meet him in Wichita. There hadn't even been an argument. His good mood had continued through the night, and in the morning, he'd given Sam a ride to school on his way out of town. 

When the clock rolled around to four-thirty, Dean started to get angry. Sam knew better than to keep them waiting, especially on a moving day. There was no excuse for him to take an hour to get home, rather than the usual twenty minutes. Scowling, Dean grabbed his keys. He'd go up to the school and see what was keeping his younger brother, put a flea in his ear for making him wait. When he went outside to go to the car, he saw that it was starting to snow. He hated November in New England.

Dean drove slowly, looking for the familiar mop of brown hair trudging down the side of the road. When he didn't find it, he got even angrier. By the time he got to the school, he was fuming. He parked in front and took a deep breath, knowing that yelling at the secretary wouldn't do him any favors.

He climbed out of the car and went into the building. "Can I help you with something?" asked a young man sitting behind the desk in the main office.

"Yes, I'm looking for my brother, Sam Winchester. Today was supposed to be his last day," Dean said. "He's never this late coming home, and I was wondering if anybody had seen him? This high" - he held his hand up to about his brother's height - "shaggy brown hair, hazel eyes?"

"Do you know what his last class is?"

Dean racked his brain. "Uh...gym, I think."

"Let me call down," he said, picking up the phone.

"Thanks," Dean said shortly. He was about out of patience with his little brother.

The man hung up the phone a few minutes later. "Gym teacher hasn't seen him, and he's not in the locker room," Dean was informed. "Do you want me to page him?"

"Sure," Dean said through gritted teeth. He drummed his fingers along the counter as he waited for his brother to appear.

Sam still hadn't shown up five minutes later, and Dean was about out of patience. "Mind if I start looking for him?" he asked the man. "We were supposed to leave" - he checked the clock - "almost two hours ago to meet our dad in Wichita."

"Sure," the secretary said. "Just take a visitor's badge."

Dean slapped the little slip of adhesive paper to his shirt and stormed out of the office. The secretary watched him go, silently thankful he wasn't Sam Winchester.

Dean combed the halls twice, seeing no sign of his little brother. He even stuck his head in to a few classrooms and asked the teachers there if they'd seen him. Eventually, Dean gave up. Maybe he'd started walking home when Dean was in the office.

He sighed and pulled out his cell phone on the way to the car. He really didn't want to call his dad, but he had to tell him why they weren't on the road already. He slid into the car and buckled his seatbelt as he listened to the phone ring.

It went to voicemail, and Dean was silently grateful. He wasn't up for an argument, not with the major rage headache he had going. "Hey, Dad, it's Dean. There's been a bit of a problem, so we're not on the road yet. I'm not sure when we'll be leaving, but I'll give you a call when I know. Talk to you later." He ended the call and started the car.

On the way back to the apartment, Dean scanned both sides of the road through the thickening snow. He didn't see his brother anywhere, and he hit the steering wheel in frustration.

The first thing he did when he opened the apartment door was yell, "Sam, you are in so much trouble right now!"

His only answer was the slight echo of an empty apartment.

Scowling, he checked every room. Sam was nowhere to be found. He looked at his watch and felt his fury melt into worry. _Sam should have been home three and a half hours ago,_ he thought. _Where is he?_

He decided he'd give it another hour before he chalked Sammy up as missing. He might have just gone over to a friend's house. It was out of character for him, sure, but he was fifteen. Out of character was the name of the game.  
***  
Dean was officially worried.

Sam didn't like moving. He knew that. Dad knew that. Everyone who came into contact with the kid knew that.

But Sam would never leave Dean hanging like this. He wouldn't go four and a half hours without calling Dean to tell him where he was. He _especially_ wouldn't pull a stunt like this after dark on the day of a move.

Dean knew he had to call their father. If Sam had a cell, Dean could have called him - but cell phones were so expensive, and Sam was so rarely out of their sight, it had always seemed like an extraneous luxury. He let the clock tick a little while longer, hoping like hell Sam would come waltzing in, but it wasn't to be.

He was _so_ not looking forward to this call.

John Winchester picked up on the third ring. "Dean," he greeted. "You on the road yet? What kept you, anyway?"

"Dad," Dean said, "we've got a problem." He paused, wondering how to phrase it so their father wouldn't blame Sam.

"What is it?" he asked impatiently. "Don't tell me the roads are too bad to drive."

"No, no, nothing like that," Dean said hastily. "It's just - Sam was supposed to be back almost five hours ago. I went to his school to check at four-thirty, but he wasn't there. He wasn't walking back. I thought maybe he'd gone to a friend's house to delay leaving, but that's not like him, and now it's dark and I still haven't heard from him. I think something's happened."

The line was deathly silent. Dean found himself hoping against hope his father would see what he was saying, that he knew Sam well enough to know that Dean wasn't covering for him.

At last, his father said, "You've checked all over town and called his friends?"

"I don't know his friends," Dean said, standing up and going into Sam's room. "I can look, see if he had their names laying around somewhere. I already checked the road to and from the school."

"Call his friends and drive around town," John said, sounding tired. "Call me by eleven to tell me what you know."

"What if I don't know anything?" Dean asked.

There was another long pause. John knew what he was asking.

"We'll deal with it then. But I'm sure you'll find something. You've always been good at tracking, Dean."

"Yeah," Dean said absently. "Call you later."

"Bye."

Dean looked around his brother's room. It had been packed up the night before, and Dean hoped Sam didn't hate him too much for invading his privacy as he unzipped the duffel sitting on the bed.  
***  
Eleven o'clock came, bringing with it a very frustrated Dean. He had been surprised to find a notebook in Sam's duffel that held the names of all his friends in town. In fact, it held the names of all his friends in every town they'd visited for the past several years. Best of all, the list included phone numbers and addresses - mailing addresses, yes, but in a town this size, nobody used a PO box.

Dean had called the four numbers under the town's name and had been told by everyone who answered that Sam wasn't there. He had cruised by their houses anyway, looking for any sign of his brother, but had found nothing. The town was small enough it had only taken him an hour to search it, but he had kept going, determined to find a hint of where his little brother was. In a last, desperate attempt, he had searched the apartment again.

His father picked up before the phone had finished ringing once. "Did you find him?"

"No," Dean admitted. "I don't get it. Nobody's seen him, nobody's heard from him - it's like he just vanished."

"That's always a possibility," John said bleakly.

"I had the EMF running all over town," Dean told him. "Nothing tripped it, except a couple faulty wires."

John sighed. "And you've checked everywhere?"

"All over town. Every street." He frowned, knowing his next suggestion was going to rile the man up. "Dad, we might need to call the police in on this one."

"And have CPS breathing down our throats?" John snapped. "I'm not even there, what's that going to tell them?"

"That you didn't want your kids coming to a house that had nothing there," Dean answered, having expected that argument. "That you trusted your nineteen-year-old to stay by himself for the seven hours your fifteen-year-old was in school and walking home. This isn't going to come down on you, and even if it does, we'll be in Wichita as soon as we find Sam. Dad, I can't find him. It's after eleven, you know something's happened to him, and it's not our kind of something. We need help."

"I'll call Bobby, see if anyone's in the area -"

"Dad, no. They won't get here in time. And if Sam shows up somewhere and can't get back by himself, it's going to look a whole lot worse if we _didn't_ call the cops. Especially since it's snowing hard and Sam might be outside."

The silence told him his dad was at least considering it. Finally, he heard a sigh. "Fine. Call them, Dean. I'm still going to see if anyone's nearby to help out."

"Thank you," Dean said, relieved.

"Call me the second you find him, got that?"

"Of course," Dean said. "I'm going to go down to the police station."

"Be careful. We don't know what has him, and they might want you," John warned.

"I'll take the shotgun," Dean promised as he locked the door to the apartment. He couldn't legally carry the pistol for at least another two years and he wasn't stupid enough to waltz into a police station blatantly flouting the law, so long guns were the only option. He'd store it under the front seat when he went inside.

"Call me back."

"Yeah. Bye, Dad." He hung up and started the short drive to the sheriff's office, just out of town limits.

When he explained what was happening to the woman running the desk, he was told to sit down and wait for a deputy. He couldn't stay still, worry and fear giving him a jolt of adrenaline that was better than coffee, so he paced instead.

When the deputies came out, the two of them made him explain himself all over again. They heard him out before they told him that Sam wasn't a missing person until he'd been gone for twenty-four hours.

Dean checked the clock. "Eleven hours isn't enough? He's not on the road. He isn't at the apartment, school, or the library. He's fifteen, he's alone, and if he hasn't called, he's hurt."

"Fifteen-year-olds do stupid things sometimes. He probably just went to a friend's house and forgot to call," one of the deputies said.

"No," Dean said flatly. "He wouldn't forget. Besides, I called all his friends. None of them know where he is, either."

"So maybe he ran away," the other deputy said. "You said he was upset about moving."

"Yeah, but not as upset as he's been the other times we've moved," Dean argued. "All his stuff is still in the apartment, packed and ready to go, and he's not stupid enough to run away in the middle of a snowstorm. On top of that, family is more important to him than anything. He wouldn't just leave without saying anything."

"You're sure about that? Teenage boys aren't the most forthcoming with how they feel."

"Positive," Dean said. "I know my brother better than anyone. He can't hide anything from me. I'm telling you, something happened to him."

The deputies looked at each other. The one on the right spoke first. "Sir, until twenty-four hours are up, we can't do anything. You can fill out a missing persons report so we have it on file and ready to go, and we can look around unofficially, but until three-thirty this afternoon, our hands are tied."

"He's a minor," Dean said. "Don't missing minors work differently than missing adults?"

"Yes, but the time frame's the same. Twenty-four hours."

Dean rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Fine. I'll fill out the report and keep looking myself."

He took off as soon as the paperwork was filed and the picture of Sam he kept in his wallet had ben photocopied.  
***  
Dean called his father at five. John picked up instantly, a testament to how worried he was. Normally he was dead to the world until his alarm went off at six-thirty, so him picking up meant he was awake, and probably had been all night.

"Any word?"

"No, Dad. Sorry. Cops say it isn't a missing persons case for twenty-four hours."

"Even for a minor?" John asked, surprised.

"Even for a minor," Dean confirmed. "I filled out the report anyway, and I've been walking around town looking for him for a couple hours now."

"You must be exhausted," John said. "Go back to the apartment and get some sleep."

"How can I sleep when -" Dean started, but John cut him off.

"At least go somewhere it's warm. If you get sick, you're not going to be able to help Sam."

Dean sighed. "Yeah. I guess you're right." He spotted an all-night diner on the other side of the street and jogged over. "I could start asking around at the businesses that are open, find out if anyone's seen him. I doubt they have, but it's something."

"Yeah, it is. Do you have a picture?"

"Yeah," Dean said. "Remember when we were at Bobby's last year and he convinced us to let him take a picture?"

"Of course. Only time you weren't covered in grease."

"I have it in my wallet. The cops copied it for the report." He leaned on the wall outside the diner. "Dad...what if we don't find him today?"

"We will," John said firmly. "One way or another, we will. I'll be on the road around nine to get back up there."

"So you'll be here tonight?" Dean asked.

"Tonight," John confirmed. "Call me when you find him, and remember to take care of yourself, too."

"Will do, Dad. Thanks." Dean hung up the phone and entered the diner.

"What'll you have?" asked the middle-aged woman working the counter with a smile.

"Coffee, please," he said to her. She pulled out a mug and filled it so quickly Dean wondered if she'd been expecting it. He pulled out his wallet when she turned to put the pot back on the heater. "Excuse me, but have you seen him anywhere?" he asked her, pointing to Sam.

She studied the picture for a moment. "No, why?"

Dean sighed. "He's my little brother. He went to school yesterday and didn't come back. Cops say they can't do anything until he's been missing a full day."

"That's awful," she said sympathetically. "I'll ask around today. Can I make a copy in the office so I have something to show people?"

"Sure," Dean said, trying not to show his surprise as he handed her the photo. She walked into the back room and Dean sipped his coffee slowly, trying to get warm again after being outside in the snow for four hours. He couldn't imagine how Sam was feeling - was he outside? Had he eaten? Was he lying in some snowdrift somewhere with his head smashed in?

He shook his head to clear it of the awful images coming to him now that he'd slowed down and stared down into his steaming coffee. _Sam's okay,_ he told himself.

The waitress came back. "I'm Natalie, by the way," she said, handing him back the original photo. Dean saw she'd done something at the copier to make Sam the only one on the paper. "I hope you find your brother."

"Thanks," he said.

"Where are your parents, if you don't mind me asking?"

"My mom's not with us anymore," Dean said. "My dad - well - we were supposed to move yesterday, to Wichita, and he went ahead to get the house ready. He's coming back as soon as he can, but he won't be back until tonight."

"So you're trying to find your brother, alone, in a town you don't know well?" Natalie asked. Seeing his look of surprise and guessing the reason behind it, she said, "You didn't seem like a local, that's all."

Dean shrugged. "Yeah. That's about it." He stood up and reached for his wallet again. "I should really get back to looking -" he began.

"You look pale," she interrupted. "When's the last time you ate?"

"Uh..." Dean looked at his watch and counted back. "Eighteen hours ago?"

"Sit back down," she ordered. "I'll get you some pancakes. On the house, too, so don't even think about reaching for your wallet again."

"Thanks," Dean said, taken aback.

She smiled at him. "I have a little brother, too," she said gently. "I can't imagine what I'd do if he was missing. I'm sure he'll be okay."

"Yeah," Dean said. They didn't speak any more, but when he was done eating, he left his phone number so she could call him if anyone told her anything. He left before the morning rush at six.

 _Where are you, Sammy?_ he thought desperately as he hit the streets again, stopping the people he passed to ask if they'd seen his little brother.

Two hours later, Dean was getting frustrated. He'd been stopping everyone he could, but nobody knew anything. He was debating calling his dad when his phone rang. He didn't recognize the number, but that meant nothing.

"Hello," he said.

"This is the sheriff's office. Is this Dean Winchester?" asked a coolly professional female voice.

"Yes. Did you find Sam?" he asked desperately. They'd said they wouldn't look, but maybe they'd stumbled onto him.

"We did, sir. Sam Winchester is at the high school."

"On my way," Dean said. He was about to hang up when he realized the dispatcher was still talking.

"- be careful."

"I didn't catch that first bit. Can you repeat it?" Dean asked

The dispatcher sighed as if he was being stupid on purpose. "I said, your brother's threatening to jump off the roof, so be careful."

Dean's insides turned to ice. "I - what? No, that's not - that's not Sam, that's not possible, there must be a mistake," he begged. He knew the kid hated moving, but this was worse than he thought.

"I'm sorry, but there is no mistake. The boy on the ledge is the boy in the photograph and he responded when the deputy called his name."

Dean hung up, breathing heavily. He ran for the car.

His heart beat fast, and not just from the speed he was moving. Sam? Suicidal? No, it couldn't be. He would have noticed. Sam would have told him.

It wasn't his brother on that roof, Dean decided. All the same, he'd check it out anyway, in case his big-brother radar was malfunctioning horribly. He just wouldn't call his dad until he knew for sure, because that was a can of worms he wasn't going to open unless he had to.

Dean's stomach sank when he pulled up to the school. Leaving his car in the turnaround instead of pulling into a parking space, he lurched from the car and stared up at his brother, just outside the safety rail of the roof. "SAMMY!" he screamed in pure terror, fear choking him. How had he missed this? Were there any signs? He racked his brain, trying to think of anything that would have told him Sam was so close to the tipping point. He thought of Sam sleeping fitfully, training with their dad, sparring with him, checking the supplies, cleaning the guns -

_Wait._

Dean's head cleared when he thought it through. Sam knew how much punishment the human body could take better than anyone else they came into contact with. A three-story fall wouldn't kill him unless he landed on his head. If Sam had wanted to die, he would have taken the poisons currently sitting in the trunk of the Impala, or shot himself with one of the dozens of guns he handled on a regular basis. He wouldn't disappear for hours on end just to stand on the roof of his school the day after he withdrew, and if he had, he would have thrown himself off the moment he got up there. Something else was going on.

He jogged over to the officers. "Something's wrong with this picture," he said.

The one without the megaphone said, "We got a jumper on a school building. There's nothing _right_ with that picture."

"No," Dean said impatiently. "I mean, there's something else going on. If Sam meant to die, he would have jumped as soon as he got up there. He doesn't change his mind once he's decided something big."

"Look, fire department's on its way. They'll get him down."

"Has he said anything?" Dean asked. They shook their heads. "All right. I'm going up there."

"You need to stay down here -"

"Like hell I do," Dean spat, temper finally boiling over. "I know my brother. He's shown no signs of being depressed, he's been missing for over seventeen hours, he's still dressed in the clothes from yesterday, and according to you, he hasn't said anything. Something else is going on."

"What've we got?" a woman asked from behind Dean. He turned to see an ambulance parked next to the squad car.

"Possible jumper."

"He's not -" Dean began, frustrated, then cut himself off. "I know how this looks. Just trust me on this one. He knows a three-story drop won't kill him. There's something else going on in that head of his. For all I know, he has such a bad migraine he doesn't even know where he is. I'm going up there to see what's going on, whether or not you approve." Dean turned and stalked to the man who looked like he was an administrator of some kind. "How do I get to the roof?" he growled.

The man jumped. "I - uh - who are you?" he stammered.

"His brother," Dean snapped. "Now show me how to get to the roof, or so help me, I will find the way my own damn self."

The man opened and closed his mouth like a fish a few times before turning and walking into the building. Dean followed, but the door didn't close behind him as fast as he expected. He glanced behind him to see the woman and a man he assumed to be her partner following.

"We're coming with you," the woman said. "He needs medical attention whether you're right or wrong."

"Just keep up," Dean said. "Can't we go any faster?"

"Sorry," the administrator squeaked, hurrying up. Dean felt himself growing annoyed with the man, even though he knew it was unfair. He was so close on the man's heels he almost bumped into him when he stopped to unlock a door on the third floor.

Dean went up first. "Sammy?" he called as soon as he got to the open air. "Sammy, where are you?" There were giant ventilation systems blocking his view of the edge. "Sammy!" he yelled, running to the edge. "Answer me, damn it!"

There was only silence. Dean scowled and turned to start walking around the perimeter, glancing around the whole time. He was here somewhere.

 _There!_ Dean caught a flash of brown between two ventilation systems and quickly turned to look more closely. That was Sam, all right. "Sam!" he yelled, starting to run.

He was running so hard he ran into the railing right next to him. "Sam," he said in relief. Sam turned to look at him, eyes glassy, and Dean felt his stomach drop for the second time that day. He looked closer. "Sam, are you _gagged?_ "

Sam didn't respond, and Dean felt a chill go through him. He gripped the fishing line and tried to pull it off, but it was too tight. "Sorry," he said, pulling out his pocketknife, "but I'm gonna have to cut this."

"Sam? Can you hear me?" the female paramedic asked. Sam didn't respond.

Dean cut the fishing line off his brother's face while the woman yelled for the officers to get up to the roof, protocol be damned. The moment the string was broken, Sam's mouth slackened. He still hadn't blinked. Dean caught a glimpse of something in Sam's mouth and reached in to pull it out without a second thought. He dropped the blue cloth, soaked with a mixture of spit and blood, on the floor and said, "Sammy. Sammy, can you hear me?"

The woman checked his pulse. "He's cold and clammy. How long has he been up here, do you know?"

Dean shook his head and heard himself start babbling while he stepped back to cut his brother's ankle ties. "Hold him, make sure he doesn't fall, will ya? He went missing right after school yesterday, but he wasn't here when I came by. I was looking for him all night, and I passed here around one, but I didn't see him, so maybe seven hours at most, but I don't know if he was outside all night or just recently -"

"I get the idea," she said gently. "Tom, can you help me hold him so Dean can cut him loose?" The other paramedic stepped up and helped the woman steady Sam while Dean went to work sawing through the duct tape holding his brother's arms to the railing. He was extremely careful around the arm he could tell was broken and on his wrists, which had been sliced. The moment Sam was free he started to buckle. The paramedics caught him just as the officers made it up to the roof.

"What happened?" one of them asked.

"He was tied up here, that's what," Dean snarled. "I have no idea what happened to him, but I know his arm's broken, and so's his wrist. Let me get him back here and I'll tell you more."

He heard the man behind him swear. "He just lost consciousness. We're gonna need help getting him over the railing."

Dean was there in an instant, holding his brother around his chest so the paramedics could grab his legs and push him upward. Dean backed up, dragging Sam with him, and laid him down the moment he safely could.

"Tom, go get the gurney," the woman ordered. "Dean, is that blood on your shirt?"

Dean looked down and swore, not stopping to wonder how the paramedic knew his name. Maybe the police had told her. "Yeah. I guess Sam got hit on the head. That's probably why he's out now."

The woman shone a light in his eyes. "Pupils are unreactive, but that could be the shock. He may not have a concussion."

Sam stirred. "Dean?" he rasped.

"Yeah, Sammy, I'm here," Dean said. "Hey, you get hit on the head?"

"Came up behind me," he said. "Sorry, shoulda fought better, but I was worried about the ones in front of me…."

"Ones? Plural? Sammy, how many were there?"

Sam licked his lips. "Eight. At least."

Dean jerked and felt new anger course through him. Sam must have felt it because he said, "Sorry...shoulda fought better…."

"Sammy, I wouldn't have taken on eight with you _and_ Dad backing me up," Dean reassured him. "Can you open your eyes? We gotta make sure you aren't concussed."

"Don't bother," Sam mumbled. "I am."

Dean smiled at the paramedic. "Told you," he said.

"Who ya talkin' to?" Sam asked.

"Cute little brunette here," Dean teased before getting serious. "Paramedic. Do you remember what happened?"

"They were waiting for me after gym," Sam said, trying to dredge up what had happened. "I told you, there was a group in front of me? Someone came up from behind and clobbered me. Next time I woke up, I was in a car trunk. They pulled me out and started hitting me. Got a couple broken ribs from that one. Good thing it's so cold, or I'd really be feeling them." Dean winced. "I passed out then and next time I woke up, I was here, and someone was asking if I'd ever cut myself and that's when they started with the knife."

Dean had seen the cuts on Sam's arms; they were deep. He was just relieved to know Sam hadn't done them himself.

Sam's thoughts were getting more muddled and he was getting dizzy again. "Then I was here with you - no, sorry, then I was tied out there and hoping they wouldn't push me off and then a car came and then you came and I'm so glad you're here." The last few words were said in a whisper.

"Wouldn't be anywhere else, bitch," Dean said. Sam didn't answer. "Sammy?"

"He's out again," the medic said. "The suddenness of it is what concerns me. Where's Tom? He should be back by now."

"Here," the medic said from behind them. "We're gonna have to carry him, there's no way the gurney's getting up those stairs."

"I got him," Dean said, starting to lift Sam, but the woman stopped him.

"We have to use a back board, Dean," she said. "We don't know how bad he's hurt."

"Fine," he said. He brushed the hair off his brother's face. "Just be careful."

"We always are," she assured him. "Does he have any allergies?"

"No, no allergies," Dean said.

"Should you be calling your mother or someone?"

"I need to call our dad," he said. "Where are you taking him?"

"Northeastern General," the woman said.

Dean nodded. "I'll meet you there." He bent over his brother's still frame. "You be good, kid," he whispered, tears in his eyes, then sat up with a shuddering breath. "Okay. I'll meet you there." It killed him to leave his brother alone, but there wouldn't be room for him in the ambulance. He wiped his eyes discreetly, trying not to cry. Sammy looked like death warmed over.

The paramedics got him onto the backboard and down the stairs faster than Dean had expected. He guessed they'd had a lot of practice.

"We'll meet you at the hospital," one of the officers told him. He'd almost forgotten they were there.

Dean nodded. "Yeah. Sure." He walked down the stairs and over to the car slowly, suddenly feeling the cold and sleepless night spent wandering around a frozen town. He waited until he was in the Impala to pick up his phone.

"Dean, did you find him?"

"Yeah, Dad," Dean said, voice breaking. "I found him. He's going to Northeastern General Hospital."

"The hospital? You're sure he needs a hospital?" John asked.

"Dad, he's been beaten and cut to hell and slipped in and out of consciousness twice in the ten minutes I spent talking to him before they loaded him up."

"Where did you find him?" John demanded.

"On the goddamn roof of the school," Dean whispered, voice breaking again. Tears slid down his cheeks, and he knew his dad would know he was crying, but he didn't care. "He'd been tied to the railing, Dad, tied to make it look like he was going to jump. Scared the hell out of me when I pulled up."

"Who did it?"

"I don't know. Sam said there were at least eight of them. It would've taken that many to tie him up like that and keep him from falling off altogether."

"I'm on my way," John said. "I got on the road a bit earlier than I expected. I should be there by around eight."

"Okay."

"Let me know when Sammy wakes up and when the doc tells you exactly what's wrong with him."

"Yes, sir."

John paused. He wasn't exactly comfortable with emotional talks, but he did his best when one was needed. "Are you doing okay?"

Dean barked out a laugh through his tears. "I'm fine, Dad. I'll see you tonight."

"Tonight," John confirmed. Dean hung up and started the Impala for the drive to the hospital.  
***  
Sam came back to consciousness in the ambulance. "Dean?" he mumbled.

"Hey, Sam," a woman said. "We're on the way to the hospital. You're a bit banged up. Can you tell me what hurts?"

Sam didn't catch any of it. He started to panic. "Dean?"

"Dean's coming, Sam. What hurts?"

Sam was deaf to her words. He tried to sit up and went into a full-blown panic attack when he found himself restrained. "Dean!" he screamed. He couldn't breathe, he couldn't see, he couldn't understand what was happening.

The paramedic named Marie watched helplessly as he slipped back into unconsciousness. The only thing she could have done was give him a sedative, but she didn't want to put anything in his system unless she knew if there was anything already in there. In her opinion, if they were willing to beat him and leave him on the roof for hours, they were willing to drug him.

Sam's back arched, his mouth gaping as he fought for breath. Marie swore and turned his head; with him on a backboard, she couldn't push him onto his side. She just had to hope he wouldn't choke on the vomit he was almost guaranteed to produce during the seizure. She kept one eye on the boy and one on her watch, timing it.

They took him as soon as the ambulance stopped in the bay, moving him down to radiology once they'd gotten a blood sample for a tox screen. Sam continued to drift in and out of consciousness, always confused, asking for his brother every time he woke. The doctors couldn't give him anything until the drug tests came back, but they did manage to check him out enough to learn what was wrong with him. One of them decided to go find his family and tell them what was happening while they waited for the results.

"Family of Sam Winchester?" Dr. Clarke asked the waiting room.

Dean jerked himself up. "I'm his brother. How is he?"

"Are your parents around?" Clarke asked him.

Dean shook his head. "Dad's on his way, but it'll be a while. We were supposed to move yesterday, and he went ahead. I was supposed to pick Sam up from school and meet him in Wichita."

"Can you call him?" Clarke suggested. "Sam's hurt quite badly, and I want to make sure you're on the same page."

Dean sucked in a breath. He'd had doctors rattle off lists a dozen injuries long before, so when one implied he wouldn't be able to remember it all, he took it as a bad sign.

"Yeah," he said, pulling out his phone and dialing. His dad picked up instantly.

"Dean? Is everything okay? What did the doctors say?"

"I don't know yet," Dean said. "The doc said to call you to make sure you heard all of it."

"That's not good," John said.

"I know. I'm gonna put you on speaker." Dean clicked the button and held the phone out in front of him, nodding at the woman to go ahead.

"Mr. Winchester, I'm Dr. Clarke," she began. "I'm one of your son's doctors. Sam has been hurt badly." She paused, obviously overestimating John's patience.

"I know," he snapped. "What's wrong with him?"

She sighed. "Sam was severely beaten on at least three occasions, judging by the bruising. From those beatings, he broke his left arm and wrist and four ribs, once of which punctured his lung. His right shoulder was dislocated. His skull was cracked, most likely by the blunt force trauma that caused his concussion. His left ankle is fractured, and several of his toes are broken. He had a seizure in the ambulance, indicating brain trauma beyond a concussion. He has cuts all over his body, some from what we assume to be rocks or sticks and some from a knife. We don't know what internal bleeding he has, if any, other than his lung. We're still waiting on the results of the tox screen to see if they gave him anything and are waiting to schedule a CT scan until we get them."

"Why are you waiting?" Dean asked.

"If your brother moves during a CT scan, the images will be worse than useless," she explained. "It's better to wait until we can sedate him."

"He's going to be okay, though, right?" Dean asked anxiously.

Clarke frowned. "That depends on the level of brain damage he sustained. The bones will mend and the concussion will heal, but we don't know what long-term effects, if any, there will be."

John gripped his phone tighter. "So you're telling me that he broke a lot of bones and has a concussion. Is that the long and short of it?"

She hesitated. "He may also have internal bleeding, but in an overly simplistic manner, yes," she said slowly. "We also have to consider the psychological effects -"

Dean cut her off. "Can we only worry about the physical now? At least until he can stay awake?"

"Fine. I should get back to Sam, his results should be in soon." She turned and walked away.

Dean took the phone off speaker. "I think she's pissed." He caught sight of two police officers looking at him from the door. "Damn it. Dad, I gotta go talk to the cops."

"Call me when you hear more about Sam," John ordered.

"Will do, Dad. Bye."

"Bye."

Dean scrubbed his face with his hands as they walked over. For once, he didn't need to come up with a cover story about how his little brother had gotten hurt. There would be no lies about falling down the stairs, tripping during a hike, or being attacked by some kind of wild animal. The truth would work this time.

And when they were done with him, they'd need to get Sam's statement. Sam would be _overjoyed._ The thought of Sam's reaction to having to talk to the cops put a small smile on Dean's lips until he actually had to give his statement.

There were no smiles then.


	3. Sam

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What happened between gym class and the roof.

Fifteen-year-old Sam swung his backpack over his shoulder. He was the last one in the locker room; he always changed in the bathroom stall, since he couldn't let anyone see the scars he had. He didn't care that the other boys thought it was shame keeping him from changing in front of them. It was his last day at the school, anyway.

He stopped when he saw the group of boys by the door. There were seven of them, all larger than he was, and all of whom he'd dealt with separately. His short, scrawny stature made him an instant bully magnet, but he'd fought werewolves and wendigos. High school boys with no combat experience were an easy win.

At least, they were separately. He knew he could take two of them at once - had done it the week before, in fact - and thought he could probably take three. But seven? Sheer numbers would overwhelm him.

This was not good.

He was so focused on watching the group in front of him, waiting for someone to make his move, that he didn't notice the one sneaking up behind him. There was a flash of pain on the back of his head and he knew no more.

***  
Sam woke to a pounding head and queasy stomach. He tried to move and found he couldn't. Forcing himself to breathe deep, he tried to remember what his father had told him to do if he was ever in a situation like this.

First: scan. He could breathe fine. He was on his side, his hands and feet were tied, his legs were folded to his chest, he was gagged, and he could tell from the nausea and the pounding in his head that he was concussed. He wasn't sure if his inability to see well was from the concussion or if there just wasn't much light.

Next: surroundings. He pushed his legs out experimentally and came into contact with something hard. Pushing his knees forward and hands back, he found the same hardness, and when he managed to stretch his head up a few inches, he realized he was in the trunk of an unmoving car.

Last: plan. He didn't know what they wanted him for, unless it was to beat him senseless, but they could have done that in the locker room. He couldn't plan an escape from whatever they would do to him until he knew what it was, but he could plan an escape from the car - _if_ his hands weren't tied so tightly, _if_ he wasn't gagged, and _if_ he had enough space to move. Three ifs that weren't on his side.

The pounding in his head took over before he could think any more and he dropped back into unconsciousness.  
***  
When Sam next woke, it was to the swaying of the trunk. The car was moving. The idea of counting the time so he knew about how far he'd gone crossed his mind, but since he didn't know how long they'd been moving before he regained consciousness, he dismissed it as a futile exercise. He closed his eyes and tried to think his way through what was happening, only opening them again when the car stopped and he heard laughter followed by a muted click.

Cold air blew across his face. The boys who'd grabbed him in the gym had opened the trunk up. Sam couldn't see around them, but he could see floodlights above him. He wondered where they were.

They dragged him out of the car and dumped him unceremoniously on the snowy ground. "You ready to play, Winchester?" one of them asked innocently as he swung his booted foot into Sam's side. He grunted and tried to work out the gag.

"None of that," one of the others said, leaning down to stuff the cloth back in his face. "In fact, I think we need to keep you from trying again." He produced a spool of fishing line and tied it tightly around his head like Sam had seen on characters with toothaches on old cartoons, making sure his mouth was entirely closed so he couldn't work the gag free with his tongue. Sam tried to open his mouth, and it infuriated him when he realized he couldn't. The most he could do was bare his teeth and suck in air through the gaps.

"We're good to go, boys," the boy said grimly, standing up. "He won't be making sound for a while."

Then they piled on top of him, kicking and hitting - but, Sam noticed, staying well away from his head and neck. He felt every blow, completely unable to defend himself or curl into a ball with the way he was tied.

There was a loud crack and Sam felt a rib break. More punches, and then another crack, this time in his arm. Two more ribs broke before he lost consciousness again, closing his eyes against the snow that continued to fall.  
***  
Sam floated into consciousness and instantly wished he hadn't. He was lying on a hard surface and covered in snow that seeped through his jacket as it melted. The throbbing in his body told him he'd been beaten thoroughly, and the flaring in his wrist told him in no uncertain terms it was broken. The only blessing was that the cold numbed him; he didn't even want to think about the pain he'd be in if he was warm. His ears were ringing like a bell and he had to concentrate to hear anything.

"He's awake," he heard someone call.

One of the boys' faces - Rick's, Sam thought, but he was seeing so many blurry copies of him he wasn't sure - swam into view. "Hey, Winchester," he sneered. "Thought you might want to be awake for this. It's about three in the morning now."

 _Three?_ Sam thought, bewildered. That didn't make sense. He hadn't been unconscious for twelve hours, surely. Even if he had been, Dean would have found him. Dean _always_ found him.

Rick pulled out a knife. "Ever cut yourself, Winchester?" he asked conversationally. 

Sam's eyes widened. _What?_

"I'll take that as a no," Rick sneered. "Well, you do now." He passed the knife to someone Sam couldn't see and got down in his face. "See, we're gonna make people think you're a jumper. When they see the cuts, you'll be committed, and you'll feel all the humiliation you dished out to us."

Sam looked at him, bewildered. Did he really think that was how things worked? How were they going to make him look like a suicide jumper, push him off a building? Maybe his ears were ringing worse than he thought and he hadn't heard correctly. Yes, that made more sense. His concussion was screwing with his ears.

Sam closed his eyes when he felt the first flick of the knife over his wrist. The warm blood trickled down his arm, under his coat. He was cut twice more before the ringing in his ears swamped his mind and he was thankfully pulled back into unconsciousness.  
***  
When Sam had regained consciousness, he was standing up and the sun was shining full in his face. He felt unpleasantly sluggish and weak, which he put down to the concussion he'd gotten less than a day ago. When he lurched forward, dry-heaving, he was glad he hadn't eaten since lunch the day before. The gag was still in his mouth and his head was still tied, guaranteeing that he would have choked on his own vomit if there was anything to come up. He slid in and out of unconsciousness several times, noticing the sun rising higher every time he woke up. He was glad for its warmth.

Sam tried to move his arms from behind him and found he couldn't, both because of the pain that lanced through his broken left arm and wrist and because his arms were stacked and tied behind him. He felt something between them - a pole, maybe? - and tried to shift his legs to get a better stance. The failed attempt drew his attention to the ledge he was standing on, short enough his toes poked over the edge, and that he couldn't move his legs. He looked down, dreading what he'd see.

A three-story drop greeted him. He cursed silently at finding himself in such a position; suddenly the plan to make him look like a suicide jumper made sense.

But how were they going to make him jump? Were they going to cut him loose and let his trippy sense of balance and lax hold on consciousness take him over? Were they going to push him? And where the hell was he?

He spotted a car coming up the road. Good, somebody would see him, get him down before they came back and threw him off. Seeing the car calmed his frantic heart. Oh, man, what if they pushed him off before the car got to the building? He didn't know if anyone was on the roof with him, after all. He twisted his arm to grip the rail with his unbroken right arm, ignoring the twinge of pain it gave him to do so.

The car parked in the lot and he saw a man get out, pulling a key ring from his pocket as he did. _Come on,_ Sam thought, _look up, I'm right here, look up, please…._

He did. Sam could have wept in relief, not just that the man had seen him, but that he recognized the man and knew from that where he was. It was the vice principal of the school Sam had been attacked at the day before. It must be nearing seven-thirty, that was when the administrators usually came in.

Sam was on the roof, tied to the safety railing. He suddenly realized why they had left his face alone: they were serious about making him seem unstable. They didn't want anyone to see a bruise on his face and get suspicious before they'd eked out every last bit of humiliation they could, and they'd put him in such a public place to make sure everyone knew about it.

Not that it mattered. He was leaving as soon as his father and Dean -

 _Dean._ For the second time, he could have cried. Dean would hear about this, and Dean would get him. It would all be okay.

"Are you all right?" he heard from below him. He struggled to angle his head enough to see him. The vice principal was flipping his phone closed, obviously having just made a call, and Sam struggled to answer. He couldn't get the cloth out of his mouth, that was the problem, and the pain in his body distracted him far too much for him to form coherent words anyway.

"Just hang on, son," the man called when Sam didn't answer. "Please, just - just hang on, okay? I don't know what's going on in your life, but I promise, it can be fixed. Just not like this."

Sam swore inside his head. The man thought he was up here by choice, thought he was about to jump, even though a three-story fall wouldn't kill him unless he landed wrong.

"I've already called 911," the man continued. "They'll be here soon. We'll get you the help you need, just please don't do anything rash."

Sure enough, Sam heard sirens in the distance. This long, terrible night was almost over, and he'd be with Dean soon enough.

Or, if the boys came back, he'd be with his mother. Either way it played out, he would be with family.

His sight clouded over again. _No!_ he thought wildly. _Gotta stay awake, Sam. Gotta let them know what's going on._ He tried desperately to work his jaw to break the fishing line, but it was no use.

The first cop car had pulled in while he was forcing himself to stay conscious.

"Hell," one of the deputies said. "Isn't that the boy the brother wanted us to look for?"

"Shit," the other said. "You're right. Get dispatch to call him." He pulled out a megaphone from the trunk of the car while his partner got on the radio to dispatch.

Sam was entirely unaware of the conversation taking place. It was too quiet for him to hear. The megaphone, however, was plenty loud.

"Sam Winchester?" He jerked his head up at that. How did they know who he was?

The officer took his jerk as a sign of acknowledgment. "Sam, your brother's worried about you. Why don't you come down so we can talk?"

 _Dean. He's worried._ Sam had known he would be, but he hadn't thought Dean would go the police. His father would be pissed.

"Sam, come on, buddy. Just turn around and climb over that railing," the officer coaxed when Sam didn't respond. Sam tried to shift, to let him know he was listening, but he was tied too tightly. He closed his eyes and bowed his head in defeat, tuning out the sound of the megaphone. He didn't care what it said, there was no way he could get free.

Damn those boys to hell for doing this to him.

"SAMMY!"

He jerked his head up. Only two people ever called him that, and one was on his way to Kansas. He found the familiar face and let a tear slip down his cheek in relief. His brother had arrived.

He wasn't entirely sure what happened next, only knew that he was suddenly back over the railing and cradled against Dean's chest, and then he was in an ambulance, and then a hospital, and the cops had come sometime, and then he was in the backseat of the Impala with his head in Dean's lap, and he was finally, finally warm.

**Author's Note:**

> This fic marks close to 20K words published in the past 5 days.
> 
> Not really relevant to anything, but I'm proud of myself.


End file.
